


Smoke

by Beldam



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: M/M, reverse au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-07
Updated: 2017-06-07
Packaged: 2018-11-10 01:18:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11116863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beldam/pseuds/Beldam
Summary: Hanzo can no longer spare the indulgence of cigarettes. Thankfully, he can live vicariously through McCree.





	Smoke

**Author's Note:**

> Uses versions of the characters from the [reverse au](https://reversewatch.tumblr.com): wherein McCree never joined Overwatch, and is currently the leader of Deadlock, and Hanzo lost the fight with Genji and was rescued by Overwatch instead.

McCree goes outside to smoke.

He does it for Hanzo’s benefit. His lungs–not his lungs, the mesh and metal put in to replace them, the bellows installed on either side of his motor heart–are sensitive to the smoke, can only filter so much before it leaves him heaving. _Pity_ , Hanzo thinks, watching through thinly cracked eyelids as Jesse rises with the sun, stretching languidly on the bedroll adjacent to Hanzo’s before fishing his lighter and a cigarillo from the jacket folded on the dirt next to him. The cowboy glances over at Hanzo once, just for a second, before bending down to slip out of the rock alcove they set up camp in the previous night.

He can’t see McCree through the gap in the stone save for his shadow, a phantasmic obstruction before the expanding orange light. The smoke from his cigarillo makes it look like his silhouette is wisping away, sublimating to nothing like dry ice. It’s another hour or so before Hanzo finally pulls himself off the ground and goes outside to join him. It’s starting to get warm, but Hanzo can see goosebumps on McCree’s bare arms. _Sensitive._ Amusedly, Hanzo thinks of running a finger down the middle of the cowboy’s back, from atlas to tailbone, cutting through the skull and wings that emblazon his shoulderblades, making him jump. Ultimately, he refrains.

“Mornin’, darlin’,” McCree says before Hanzo can announce his presence, voice rough, quiet with morning. He tips his head to one side so he can see Hanzo better with his one good eye. Brown. Flecked with green. Blistering, swirling desert; sweet succulents hidden amongst the sand. He blinks, and the lid of his scarred eye flutters. “Slept in today.”

“Mm,” Hanzo murmurs. His voice sounds more synthesized the softer he speaks; it has a distinct electronic hum, an alien presence in the vast wilderness. He walks to McCree’s side; McCree crouches and grinds out his cigarillo against the earth.The cinders that burst from beneath McCree’s fingers look like flecks of escaped daylight. Standing close, Hanzo wants to tell McCree, _I like the smell of those_ –better than the trash his underlings smoked in the Shimada, the cigarettes he’d deign to buy from _konbini_ in the dead of night after too-long evenings, the smell of Genji’s lovers on his clothes, their fumes languishing on the tatami.

“Pity,” Hanzo says out loud, completely by accident. McCree turns to him, inquisitive. “That I cannot smoke anymore,” Hanzo explains.

McCree sniffs. “Not that much of a pity.” He kneads the back of his neck with the ends of his fingers. “‘S nasty habit. You were better off quittin’.”

Hanzo almost corrects him– _I did not quit; I had no say_ –but decides against it. Whether or not it was his choice, the result is the same in the end. And he knows that if he even intimates a hint of suffering, McCree will give him that look, simultaneously empty and replete, a vast hollow made by sympathy, aching to be filled with Hanzo’s most awful memories. And while Jesse is always eager to be taken advantage of (too kind for his own good) Hanzo demures the opportunity. 

In bland agreement, he just says, “Maybe so.”

McCree’s lip quirks. He has good instincts. Even without Hanzo mentioning it, he can tell he has said something careless. As if by way of apology, he says, “You’re too good for the stuff I smoke anyway.”

Hanzo chuckles. “You have too high an estimation of me, as usual. I do not think I am too good for much at all, these days.”

“Ah, well.” McCree stands. He pats his hands against his thighs, brushing off stray ash, and squints into the sunlight. “At least too good for me, I reckon.”

Hanzo scoffs loudly. “Jesse,” he says, on the edge of laughter, thoughtless and candid so soon after dawn, “there is nothing that is too good for you.”

McCree turns to him suddenly, expression blank. The sun shines brighter as it rises; the light of it bouncing off the ruddy sand gives the cowboy’s face a distinct redness across his cheeks and neck. After a long pause, Hanzo cocks his head to one side, raising his eyebrow curiously.

“Is something the matter?”

“No,” McCree bites out, too fast, looking back at the horizon. He reaches up like he’s trying to pull down the brim of his hat, but seeing as he isn’t wearing it, he jerks like he’s missed a step at the bottom of the stairs before combing his fingers awkwardly through his shaggy hair. “What makes you think anything’s the matter? Does it seem like something’s the matter? Ain’t nothin’ either way, so don’t worry your head about anything bein’ the matter, because there ain’t.”

“Alright. In spite of that needlessly suspicious answer, I will take you at your word,” Hanzo hums, smiling faintly.

“Well. Good.”

“Mm. Good, indeed.”

McCree toes the dirt. His adam’s apple bobs. “You know, Hanzo…”

“I know, McCree…?” Hanzo urges when the silence drags a little too long.

“You know…” McCree inhales deeply. He looks straight up, right into the heart of the cloudless sky–and then exhales so intensely that he looks physically smaller afterwards. “You know…we oughtta pick up and head out.” He gestures vaguely ahead of him. His expression is distinctly exhausted. “Got a lot of ground to cover today if we’re gonna get to the gorge ‘fore nightfall.”

Hanzo nods his assent. It goes without saying that McCree is keeping something from him, but he can’t begrudge him that. They are both particular with their secrets, after all. If there’s something he needs to say, then he will do it on his own time. There is no need to rush. “I’ll begin packing our things then.”

“I’ll be right in after ya. Lemme just get in one more smoke and we can hit the trail.”

Hanzo nods again and ducks back into the alcove to start preparations to go. Behind him, he hears the click of a lighter, and right after, a helpless sigh from McCree: a rasping, “ _Hell._ ”  


End file.
